𝗮𝗱𝗺𝗶𝗻

"She's going to dump you." Osamu watches his twin closely through half-lidded eyes and notes the way his jaw clenches with a hint of amusement. He warms up flawlessly, concentration unbroken and motions fluid, save for the tensing of that little, itty bitty muscle. (His tell.) "She told me."

"She's lying."

"Keep tellin' yourself that and you'll eventually convince yourself too." 

"Shut up. She doesn't even like you. She's just playin' mind games like always because she's pissed about last weekend." Osamu keeps staring dully. (Man was ‘Tsumu full of shit.) "Sure I kinda fucked up but I'm under a lotta stress, and I can't be mean to fans or I'll be the jerk, 'cause they can't help being' excited. And you know they’ve been touchy since high school.”

"What, did ya cheat or something?"

"No way!" Atsumu finally tears himself away from his workout long enough to look Osamu straight in the eye. "What d'ya think I am, stupid?" 

“Think?” 

(The abandoned volleyball bounces loudly across the court before rolling to a stop against the gym wall.) 

“I’m busy, ‘kay? It’s not like I’m ignoring her.” 

“You’re full of shit.” 

Atsumu looks angry, which is surprising because there’s nobody to be mad at for this news except himself. (He doesunderstand accountability.) “She could’ve come and talked to me instead of goin’ around braggin’ to you about how she’ll get back at me.” 

“Like it’d have gotten through your thick skull.” 

“Whose side are you on?!” 

(Osamu’s tempted to sock him.) “I should be askin' you that, seeing how you're so hellbent on screwing things up yourself."

"Butt out 'Samu."

"She didn't even realize she told me. She's bein' serious this time."

"Did she accidentally tell you why she's so pissed too, since she's so serious?" His tone's a classic mix of taunting and so self-assured that it actually pisses Osamu off. He doesn't know much about your relationship—the two of you are on frigid terms at best, and 'Tsumu rarely if ever mentioned you in casual conversation—but watching the way his brother manhandled you made everyone uncomfortable. 

He gets up from the stands. 

"I tried to warn ya."

(He was always cleaning up after his messes.) (He sees no reason why this would be any different.)

/

His brother texts him a string of expletives around midday, while Osamu's wiping off his counters. He replies with a single question mark, as though he doesn't know what he'd meant. Atsumu doesn't text him again.

/

Osamu'd be nervous if he was the type to be, he thinks. (He hadn't seen 'Tsumu but he knows him, and he knows he'd kill 'im if he knew you were perched uncomfortably at his dining table.)

"Didn't think you'd show up." 

"Me neither." (He'd forgotten how mean you could look.) Underneath the sharp jet black stroke of your eyeliner was a sharper, colder look in your eyes, fixed straight onto him. (You're nothing like Atsumu's type.) "But I thought you'd snitch to Atsumu too, so I guess we're even."

He shrugs his shoulders. (It's not lying if he keeps his mouth shut.) "Ramen's almost done."

"I'm not here for dinner," you shoot back, eager to get this day over with and finally curl up in bed for the weekend. "What'd you call me over for?"

"Your loss then. I'm a great cook." 

He is, but you're not hungry. "I'm single, not free to wait around 'til you decide to fill me in on whatever was so important that it couldn't be handled over text." (You regret coming over after how nauseous Atsumu's chilled reaction to your declaration—'Let's break up'—had left you. You hadn't expected him to beg you to stay, but you'd stuck around with him for a year. Almost two.) (He's gotten more emotional about overcooked barbecue.)

(Osamu looks just like him.)

He gets right to the point. (The whiplash is dizzying.)

"You really wanna stick it to that asshole?"

You narrow your eyes, suspicious, but lean in curiously. (The Miyas may fight tooth and nail most days but they were still blood and you can't imagine either betraying the other, especially not for a no-name ex-girlfriend like yourself.) (You'll still hear him out. Osamu's much less predictable.) "And if I do?"

Osamu grins. "Go out with me. He'll go apeshit."

You gag, moving back against your seat as far as possible. "As if. You're so not my type."

"C'mon, we're literally identical twins. Biologically speaking you're already attracted to me."

"Biologically speaking both you and your brother are a real bunch of pigs. I'm done dating Miyas for now and forever, thank you very much."

He chuckles, clapping his hands together. "Relax—s'not like I’m actually asking you out. Atsumu just has to think we're dating."

You’re still unconvinced. "He'd never buy it. He's dense, but he’s not a complete idiot. Who'd believe that we're into each other?” You pause and tack on a halfhearted, “No offense."

"I'm being serious." 

"Do I look like I'm joking?" You scoff, in complete disbelief. "We date, and then what? Atsumu realizes he's actually been madly in love with me all along and quits making his agent text me his itinerary so he can drag me along to his events without having to lift a finger? I'm sure he'll see me with you and remember how to be a boyfriend instead of a fucking PR machine."

"Fake date."

"My bad," you sneer. 

"Who cares if he does?"

"How exactly are we sticking it to him otherwise?" (This was a bad idea.) (Favor or not, you and Osamu are not friends. He'd ignored you on good days, and the evening you'd dumped his brother was far from that.) (Had it been a bad day for his brother? You couldn't tell.) (You wish you could erase the memory of his clipped tone—'Your call'—out of the grooves of your brain.) 

Osamu can't read your frozen expression when he reminds you, "It'll piss him off."

"Come again?"

He's more confident when he speaks this time. "He'll lose it. 'Tsumu hates sharing."

You don't have to complain about how dehumanizing that kind of language is out loud. (You broke up with Atsumu for that exact reason, after all.) "This is sick."

"What?"

"You're him," you spit out, and those two words mean so many different things all at once. (How could you stomach looking at him when you saw Osamu? How would you ever get over Atsumu? Why would he offer this like he cared, when you knew he didn't?) 

The familiar territory is amusing. "Far from it, I think. Doesn't matter though. You and I both know I'm right about this."

(For once, he actually is.)

"This is really sick," you repeat, but you're already losing your conviction. (Atsumu'd hung up on you like you had donesomething wrong. He hadn't even asked why.) ("Let's break up.") ("Your call.") ("I want to break up.") (And he'd given you what you'd wanted.)

You know it'd be healthier to walk away and move on and let yourself heal. (You can't kid yourself. Nobody who prioritized health would've hung onto Atsumu for as long as you had.) You can't bring yourself to care.

"Go out with me?"

(You swallow past the lump in your throat, impulse flooding through you, and nod.)

"Maybe."

(Maybe isn't no, which practically makes it yes.) Osamu nods back, content.

You hate yourself for staying with Atsumu even though he's horrible, and the only possible (sane) reason you could've endured this for so long was an addiction to the microdoses of fame that dating a famous athlete brought you. (Half-dating.) (Like you could call him your boyfriend in front of friends or in Instagram captions, but not while he fucked you or things got awkward.)

He's probably off chugging beer or competing in some macho man drinking game while you're expected to sit at his booth and look pretty and wait around to finally be graced with his presence for a mere five minutes of the night. It'd been fine the first five hundred fucking times it'd happened at the MSBY post-game parties, but eventually the novelty of your presence had worn off and you'd blended into the background with the furniture. You're as much a fixture at these events as one of the barstools.

You're not a fucking barstool. 

(What are you doing here?)

You've thought of breaking things off with him before, but mostly during fights that left you dizzy with anger. You're impulsive, sure, but even you know better than to break off this (admittedly mutually beneficial) arrangement over a simple argument. You'd needed to make sure you'd lose more by staying than by leaving first.

You swirl your half-empty drink, half-heartedly noting the chipped polish on your middle finger. (You needed a touch up.) You were losing.

It'd be funny to dump him right here and right now in front of his entire team and their livestream audience tuned in to see whatever brilliantly stupid antics the victors were getting up to. He'd hate it. (And by extension, hate you.) (Therein lies the problem, of course.)

You'd never admit this out loud—you've barely admitted it to yourself, for fuck's sake—but you think you love Atsumu, in your own twisted way. You've never been a flowery person—you can count the times you've said 'I love you' out loud to him on your hands, and pet names are out of the question entirely—but the thought of seeing him with another trophy girlfriend makes you so mad that the glass in your hand nearly shatters. (You set it down. The last thing you need tonight is stitches.)

Love is cheap though, and no amount of it is worth being used as a decoration when you know you deserve so much better.

(For starters, a boyfriend that didn't treat you like an accessory.)

You won't dump him in front of his team, not tonight. (Tomorrow, you resolve. You type the reminder into your phone next to the alarm to take your vitamins.) (This will be way better for you than vitamins.)

"Don't you look real pretty tonight?"

(You lock your phone, slamming it face down against your half-bare thigh hard enough to sting.)

"I know."

"It's never a 'thank you' with you, huh?" Osamu makes himself comfortable in the seat across from yours. You wish he wouldn't, but you've lived through this exact scene enough times to know asking isn't worth your breath. (The Miyas do what they want.)

You smile sweetly. "You're welcome."

"You and Atsumu deserve each other," he shoots back, sans the smile. (For what it's worth, you drop your own.) 

"Why don't you go bother him then?" 

He grins now, looking so much like his brother that you're tempted to hurl the rest of your drink at him. "You just look so sad all alone. Figured you needed the company to cheer you up. Pretty girls should smile on Friday nights."

"You're a real asshole."

"Don't shoot the messenger." He chuckles, grabbing your drink and polishing it off with a giant gulp. "He really likes you, you know."

You wave in front of your face disgustedly, piecing together his patronizing words of comfort through his belching. (You're not sure what's grosser, the fruity fumes or that he felt the need to convince you that you were a catch. As if you didn't know.) (You were losing.) "Even twin telepathy has its limits, Miya. Butt out."

"I'm right."

"You always think you're right."

"Because I am." 

"Don't you know that your piece of shit brother only keeps me around for appearances, like some sort of Barbie to show off to his alpha male fans and teammates, or do I have to spell it out for you?" (You have to make a conscious effort to unlock your jaw.) (You're so fucking tense.) "Or do you already know, and just think this shit is funny?"

Osamu's upper lip curls into a sneer. "Don't talk about my piece of shit brother like that again." You quirk an eyebrow upwards. He leans in close enough to drown you in the stench of the alcohol he's downed. (Not that you're any better off yourself.) "He's still my problem."

(A shiver traces down your back.)

"Teach him some basic manners and I'll consider it."

"Quit it."

You roll your eyes, carefully crossing one leg over the other. (He always watches so closely. Not in a creepy way, but you notice because Atsumu never sees anything. They're like night and day.) "Or?"

"Or what?"

"That's what I'm asking." You groan. Osamu holds his liquor well—he's always way drunker than he looks—but he's a nightmare once he reaches his limit. You move to call Atsumu (because it'd be a cold day in Hell before you babysit a man-child for free, let alone one you don't even like), but Osamu swats the phone out of your reach.

"What're you gonna do about it?" 

"I told you to mind your business."

"Are you just gonna keep mopin' about Atsumu being a shitty boyfriend forever? 'Cause that's real fucking boring." You grimace, and he shrugs his shoulders. "I'm just bein' honest."

"You're literally the last person I'd ask for fair, unbiased advice about anything, and also Atsumu's twin brother if I remember correctly." You grab your phone again and stand to leave. "Tell him I went home early." 

"How're you getting there?"

"A cab charged to his card."

He laughs, loudly enough to draw attention from some of the other guests (who you glare at until they pretend to stop eavesdropping). "Is that your plan? You're just gonna cling to him until his money dries up? Lame. Real fuckin' boring." 

Your face burns up, and you hiss when you speak. "I'm going to let this slide once, because you're blacked out and I'll never see your stupid fucking face again after I dump your brother, but you do not get to talk to me like that." You don't care that the cab is 10 minutes away—you're getting out of here now. You'll figure out the dumping part tomorrow.

(You can't figure out which Miya you're more annoyed with.)

Osamu curses under his breath. You'd been pissed with Atsumu for a long time, sure, but damn were you pent up tonight. (He can't say that he's surprised. 'Tsumu's not exactly a romantic.)

Atsumu claps his brother on the back, hard enough to knock him off his seat. "Where the fuck've you been?" He's grinning that wide, shit-eating grin of his that comes out when he's feeling real good.

"What's it to ya?"

You roll your eyes at the competitive jeer. “If you were even half as brainy as you are buff, I’d consider it.” The bite of your tone hides the nerves beginning to prick through your defenses. This was dumb—just because they’d locked off the end of the stairs you’d used earlier didn’t mean you were trapped—there was probably another easier, if more long-winded way for you to get off of Inarizaki’s roof. “This is what we get for sneaking onto campus.”

This time Atsumu rolls his eyes (or at least you imagine he does—it’s difficult to see him clearly through the purple haze of dusk). “Don’t be such a wad! You can’t say ya didn’t have a good time lookin’ around.” 

You only stick your tongue out at him, because he’s right. You’d thought you’d gotten used to running the rings of dating an athlete when you’d finally begun dating Atsumu in year 3, after a lifetime of skirting around each other’s feelings, but graduation had meant saying goodbye to not only Inarizaki, but also any spare second of your boyfriend’s free time. You can’t even be mad when days turn into weeks without seeing his face (though he never fails to text you with a gossipy run-down of his busy day). He’s reaching for the stars and achieving his dreams—how could you begrudge him that?

(You’re still a little bitter nonetheless when you go to sleep in your childhood bed and realize you’re still stuck on Earth with both feet planted firmly onto the ground. You try to remind yourself that you’ll be wishing for these lazy days again when university starts and you’re slammed half to death by assignments, but it’s no use.)

You’re filled with a sense of restlessness—perhaps that’s why you’d agreed so readily when Atsumu’d appeared out of thin air on your doorstep and asked, with a characteristically troublesome smirk, if you’d like to run away and do something fun although simply seeing him back home after months away training was reason enough to go along with whatever he’d asked at that point).

“Just jump already!” The loud whine catches you off guard, making your chest constrict painfully. “I’ll catch ya, I swear!”

You’re only one floor above the ground, a height that Atsumu had gracefully leapt down from (and then proceed to cheer about, pounding his chest victoriously). But you still feel suffocated by the thought of letting go, jumping down and letting gravity take control even for mere seconds. It’s a feeling you’re far too familiar with. (You always feel suffocated, torn between choices and eventually left behind when time runs out. You want to be more like your boyfriend, who never thinks twice about his goals and works hard to achieve what he feels is owed to him. You want to.)

You mutter something under your breath. 

“Huh?! Speak up!”

You want to throw something at him so bad. “I said I’m scared, ‘Tsumu!”

It’s true. You’re scared to take the leap, literally and everywhere else in your life. You’re scared you’ll spend your whole life sleeping angrily in your childhood bed, wondering what could’ve been. 

“Yeah, no duh. That’s why I’m here for ya.” He says it with such confidence that you wonder what the hell Atsumu learned at that training camp to suddenly grant him awareness of nuance (something he’d lacked as long as you’d known him). You’re starting to think he’d showed up out of nowhere to drag you along for a trip down memory lane for some reason other than ‘fun’.

“If you complain even once about me crushing you I’m dumping you.” 

“Yer killin’ me!” You ignore him and finally jump, the air rushing out of your lungs in a fearful hiss. It hurts when you land, dull pain searing through your joints, which were numb from the chilly night air. But you’ve done it. 

You turn to Atsumu, your face split in a wide grin. “I did it!” He’s smiling just as wide, and a second wave of shock washes over you. “I did it by myself!”

He stretches his arms out, ready to catch you for real this time when you hug him tightly. (He’d missed being able to hug you like this way more than he’d ever admit out loud. He’d missed everything about you, really, but seeing you back to your high spirits, without the gloom that’d settled into your bones ever since school had gotten out was the best part.)

“I told ya you were just being a big dumb baby!”

He doesn’t even mind when you push yourself off him to land a solid hit to his chest. He just pulls you back into a headlock, which while admittedly unromantic, felt right. “Let go ‘Tsumu! You’re such a brute!”

(He hopes you know that even when you don’t need him, he’ll always be there to catch you when you’re scared. But he doesn’t know how to say it out loud yet—hell, he doesn’t even know how to process this himself—so he just continues to wrestle with you, hoping you can tell how he feels when he brushes a kiss against your cheek.)

His grin melts into a soft, goofy smile. Your hair is stuck up in the back, and there’s funny wrinkles on your face, the ones that always showed up when you used your arm as a pillow. He’s almost scared to come any closer, for fear of what other little details he’ll notice that’ll make his heart grow two, three, four sizes too big and leave him with the ache in his chest you’d been causing awfully often these days.

He chases away the sweet sentiments clogging up his brain with an excited cheer. “You’re finally awake! Come join the game!”

You shake your head fast enough to make yourself dizzy. “No way! You play like it’s Nationals, and I’m not awake enough yet to keep up.”

“You’ll never know until you try!” He sulks, but quickly gets over it when you wave him over. 

Sitting up is exhausting but you force yourself to, grabbing the sunscreen out of your bag as you beckon for Bokuto to sit next to you. His cheeks are as pink as yours feel. The sunburn is cute—Bokuto’s ridiculously cute when he blushes, a sight you never get tired of—but you want to avoid as much of his inevitable whining over the painful burn as you can. 

“The guys are waiting on the ball!”

“The guys can wait a little longer.”

You gently apply the sunscreen to his face, lightly skimming the high points with your fingers to avoid irritating his skin any further. You’re still sleepy, half-lost in trying to remember what you’d dreamed about during your nap, otherwise you’d notice how quiet Bokuto was being. He normally filled the space between the two of you with idle chatter about anything and everything that caught his attention—it made for nice white noise that always piqued your interest—but he just sat there, taking you in. 

(It was his nature to fill in empty gaps with his good-natured chatter, and he really did enjoy talking through his thoughts, but something felt incredible about sitting here silently, feeling so close to you that there was no gap to be filled in the first place. Bokuto fell in love easy—with people and places and dreams and the new ramen shop that opened last week—but he’s never realized what it really meant to be in love until today. Love was sneaking peeks of you looking so cute even with dried drool on your cheek through your ministrations.) 

“There. You know, there’s almost no point in applying sunscreen in the first place if you’re just going to sweat it all off in five minutes and never touch it up.” You’re only scolding for the sake of scolding (and because Bokuto is looking at you so sweetly, so devoutly, that your stomach began aching the moment you noticed it, your mind begging you to say something before you got lost in his eyes).

He kisses the tips of your fingers before you can fully pull away. His voice is cheery (albeit choppier) as usual as he shouts, “Thank you [nickname]!”